Sometimes I'm dumb and then I write about it.

Against my better judgment, I’ve let someone in. I have talked about my kids; I’ve told stories and shown pictures. I’ve used their names instead of calling them “the big one” and “the little one.” I’ve talked about my dad, my ex, and yeah…even my emotions. I’ve done it without realizing, and I keep doing it. As much as I know I should stop, I don’t. I actually want to let this person in. I want them to know these things about me. I want to know things about them.

If someone said to me, “I’m taking you on a vacation; let’s go,” it would stress me the fuck out. What do I pack? Are we going somewhere warm or somewhere cold? Do I pack casual clothes or something fancy? Will we be doing a lot of walking? Do I need my running shoes? Where are we staying? Should I bring my hair dryer, or will we be at a hotel that has one? Or maybe we’re camping! Do I need my pillow?

I really, really hate crying. I will do pretty much anything to avoid crying. If I’m reading a book and it starts to feel like I might cry, I stop reading it. If it’s a TV show, I change the channel. If it’s a movie, I go to the washroom and stay there for like half an hour until I feel like it’s safe to return. For real.

These are things my ex-husband said to me before I left. These were all said in one day, in less than 12 hours. This is emotional abuse. This right here. I’m done pretending it isn’t. I’m done pretending that I’m not a victim. I am. I don’t want to be. I don’t want to admit that I am. I don’t want to admit that I let myself get this deep. I don’t want to admit that I let someone have so much control over me.

Case in point. I met a guy on Tinder. We talked on the app for a few days, and then exchanged phone numbers. Texted back and forth. Tried to make plans for a weekend, but I had my kids and the only window of time I had didn’t work for him. So we texted for another week or so, and then made plans for a Friday night that I didn’t have my kids.

I used to joke with my ex husband about how many kids we would have. I wanted 4; he wanted 2. So I said that we should have 6! That way if we get divorced, he can take his 2 and I will take my 4. If we ended up not getting divorced, then we would always have an extra gift lying around if we forgot someone’s birthday. “Oh, it’s your 30th? Here, have a baby!” And also we would have spares if any of the children needed a liver. Win-win-win.